


Control Issues

by edlothia



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edlothia/pseuds/edlothia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha knows how to lie. What happens when the only available method is telling the truth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control Issues

**Author's Note:**

> The following story hasn't been beta read, and comes with apologies for any ensuing errors. The author hopes that you enjoy the crack nonetheless...because what the film was really missing was Loki and Natasha locked up in a room together where no one can hear them scream.

She doesn’t bother to give Fury the look – the one where she holds her chin down just a little and looks up, through her eyelashes, mouth parted just enough to suggest an innocence she lost so long ago she might as well have been born without it.

 

Instead, Natasha nods, and her commander glares at her as if doing so will convince him that she’s understood the full connotations of his request.

 

‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was any other way,’ Fury says, and she just about resists the desire to roll her eyes at him.

 

‘There is no other way,’ she echoes with so much sarcasm she almost sounds like Stark. ‘It’s not like you have anyone here who’s better at this than me.’

 

Fury smiles; it’s the grim smile she associates with _for the greater good,_ and it makes her want to slap him until he wakes up and sees that the world isn’t full of heroes. ‘You’ve got twelve hours to get the intel.’

 

She nods again and spins on her heel, sashaying out of the briefing room as if it were her own.

 

\--

 

The interrogation chamber is made of some extraterrestrial metal that Banner assured her would stand up against any sort of magic that could be thrown at it. She tuned out the scientific jargon the moment he started digressing into it, but the fact is that even if she understood it she still wouldn’t trust the walls around her until she’s seen it in action. Which she will do, and much sooner than she wants to.

 

Natasha spends a whole lot of her time bluffing; but what she’s learnt, over the years and the red stains she’d rather forget, is that the very best lies are the ones based in truth. She’s read hundreds of actors’ manuals, and she knows the old adages – think of your own experiences, play what you know, draw on your emotional memory – and she’s got one hell of a crock pot of memories to draw on if she wants to. With most people it’s needless, since they’re all so distracted by what's on show that she doesn’t have to tell.

 

_He’s_ different. She knew using just the surface on him would never work, and so she took the one thing she knew she could count on – how much he needed, wanted, lusted after the chance to hurt her – and she opened herself up to it. Even just that little tiny breach against the shields she’s spent years assembling was like a floodgate. Sure, she might’ve won – might’ve gotten what they needed at the time, for all that it helped when chaos descended around them (because _damnit,_ he was so fucking _right_ ) – but there was a cost.

 

The only thing keeping her going this time was not thinking about the cost at all.

 

‘Bring him in, then lock the door and leave.’

 

‘Ma’am?’

 

She glares at the SHIELD agent as if her eyes alone can bore holes in their head (and for the effect it has they might as well have done). The agent scuttles from the room as if bitten and returns moments later with two others, and the captive grasped in their hands. He’s got a bag over his head – silk, she notices, as if they were worried that he’d disapprove of anything rougher – and his arms and legs are chained, but somehow it doesn’t make him look any the less dangerous.

 

‘Ma’am –‘ the SHIELD agent protests, and she longs for something to hurl at the imbecile’s head.

 

‘Which part of _get out_ was too complicated for you?’ she asks sweetly, pulling her lips into a smile that sure as hell doesn’t meet her eyes.

 

They leave, and she hears the deadbolts slotting into place, leaving her alone in the most secure prison cell in the world with a madman and no CCTV. As the last lock clicks into place she can practically hear her own heart racing, the thrum of blood rushing through her body as if being just that little bit faster will make any difference.

 

He hasn’t moved, but that doesn’t unnerve her too much – nor does the fact that he stays perfectly still as she slinks over to him and wraps her fingers around the handcuffs at his wrist. The skeleton key she’s had concealed in her hand since the agents walked in with him flicks out and in a matter of moments he’s free again.

 

The chains clatter to the cold floor and rattle with an icy chill that matches the laughter pealing from his concealed lips.

 

She sits on the table in front of him and smiles.

 

‘Hello, Loki.’

 

\--

 

His lack of movement might not have made her pause, but the fact that he hasn’t taken the blindfold off does. She hears a draw of breath after his laughter subsides, so slow and languorous that she can practically see his eyes flutter closed as he inhales her.

 

‘Hello, Natasha.’

 

She leans backward on the table, resting on her hands with fingers spread wide to feel the cool steel against her skin. He moves, then, for the first time – a gentle rocking on the balls of his feet as if in response to a movement rather than a movement unto itself. Even through the bag she can see him cock his head to the side.

 

In the moments she lets pass, Natasha listens to her pulse and his breathing and wonders why she never noticed that even in the moments of his seemingly effortless control, his breaths are always racing – just like hers. Each minute that whisks by as she watches and listens make his movements more noticeable, more exaggerated, more defined – more desperate. She smiles inside, and feels the warmth of power and success pool low in her belly.

 

When he gives in and whips the cover from his face in so swift a motion that his hair falls about those deadly cheekbones, she allows the smile to appear.

 

‘What?’ he snaps, voice all predator and growl. ‘No rules for me, Agent Romanov? No...this is how it’s going to go? No threats, or reminders of all the _terrible_ things you’ve done?’

 

She doesn’t flinch, even when he steps into the arch of her open legs and so nearly presses his body up against hers (it should be cold, but in this metal cage he’s so _very_ warm). Instead, she cocks her head so that her hair bounces around her ears and continues to smile.

 

‘Would it make a difference?’ she asks, sitting up fully so that the inches between them are centimetres and his short breaths are fluttering over her face like burning feather touches. ‘I can oblige, if you’d like. Set some ground rules...but I think we’re past pretending we play by those, aren’t we?’

 

His eyes gleam as he runs them over her, and she berates herself for the breath that catches in her throat when he does – (if it’s real, won’t she fake it so much better?) – but lets him notice it anyway. A horrible smile, more a smirk than any sort of glimmer of humanity, tugs at his lips and he wraps slender fingers round her right wrist.

 

‘I think,’ he says, raising her arm between them, ‘that your little friends don’t realise quite what they’ve unleashed.’

 

She opens her lips to respond, but his are already brushing against the pulse point on her arm as light as gossamer. It’s like a bolt of his brother’s lightning running straight between her legs and in that moment, Natasha hates herself more than she’s ever done before.

 

‘You miss it, don’t you,’ she whispers into his ear as his face tilts in front of hers, and her voice is low and breathy. She doesn’t conceal it, lets all her arousal betray her. ‘Having people to screw with. It’s what feeds you, just like your brother feeds off honour and what’s right and saving the god-damned world.’

 

He doesn’t answer with words, just clasps her wrist harder and lets his other hand run down to rest at her hip. Her free hand comes to rest where his shoulder meets his neck, twining in the ends of his hair – as if they were dancing (which she supposes, in a manner of speaking, they are).

 

‘I’ll trade you for it,’ Natasha continues, and the very notion of it makes him pull her body flush against his as naturally as inhaling. ‘I’ll give you whatever you want. You give me the coordinates.’

 

‘Whatever I want?’ Loki hisses in her ear, and she grits her teeth to stop from growling as his nails dig into the flesh of her wrist. ‘How could you possibly think that a foolish, mortal woman could give me what I want?’

 

His lips brush against the nape of her neck as he laughs at her and it’s all Natasha can do to stop from whimpering. ‘Control,’ she spits out in a rush of breath, as the sensation in her hand starts to become nothing but pins and needles. ‘We’re the same, you and me. We always have to be – to be in control.’

 

‘And are you, Agent Romanov? Are you in control?’

 

She whimpers then, damn her body to Asgard and back; and his responding rumble of laughter shakes up against her. ‘No,’ she admits, loosening the tension in her neck so that her cheek is resting against his. ‘No, I’m not.’

 

He grins – she feels it even though she can’t see it – and the hand at her hip rises up and fists in the material at the curve of her back, pulling her against him so tightly that her breasts ache from the pressure. ‘And what will you do, little Agent, if I take what I want from you and don’t give you your precious coordinates?’

 

She swallows another moan as he presses his lips against her neck properly this time, the tip of his tongue flicking out to taste where her blood pulses frantically. ‘Either I’ll kill you,’ says Natasha, latching her legs around his waist and locking her ankles together (and oh, god, she can feel him right where she needs him), ‘or we’ll have to do this all over again. It depends.’

 

‘On what?’

 

‘On how much you make me scream.’

 

\--

 

It’s her last card, her joker, and it seems to have worked – (because you always act better when you use the truth) – because he’s dropped her wrist and grasped her hair in his fingers, pulling so tightly that she thinks he might tear the whole lot out, and his face is right there in front of hers with eyes boring into her soul. He holds her there, lets her tangle her hands into his hair and grind her hips against his, but no matter how much she struggles against him he won’t let her close the last of the space between them to claim his lips.

 

‘Say it,’ he growls at her, and somehow it’s all the worse when he’s fucking her with his eyes as well as talking.

 

The replies she attempts all come out in mumbled gasps as he returns her trick and grinds up against her, rubbing the seam of her pants right up against her clit so hard that she thinks she might come right there if he does it again.

 

‘Say you want me to kiss you, Natasha.’

 

Her lips shake as she whimpers and she has to bury the part of herself that wants nothing more than to hate every moment that she loves. ‘Damnit, Loki!’ she exclaims, and he jerks on her hair so hard that she can feel it tear from her head. ‘Kiss me, oh, gods – _please_.’

 

He gives her what she wants, and so much more; he doesn’t just kiss her, he devours her, sucking on her bottom lip and dragging his tongue across hers as if he wants to taste each and every inch of her. It’s slow and frantic all at once, and she knows she’s lost all finesse and descended into grasping desperately at his body because if he stops then she might implode – or worse, she won’t.

 

Loki breaks away from her and the sight of his mouth, red with her lipstick where it’s come off, and his hair askew where she’s mussed it makes her want to pounce on him there and then. Instead he steps backward, pulling her from the table and drops the two of them down onto the floor.

 

\--

 

His mouth is everywhere, or that’s what it feels like – there’s a bite at her neck that’s going to leave bruises, even after he’s licked the blood away – and there are scratches down the middle of her chest where he’s ripped at the zipper on her suit. It’s long gone, along with her belt, tossed to the side like the civilians he wants to crush under his rule, and she’s moaning now as if it’s all she draws breath for.

 

Natasha reaches forward to tug at Loki’s clothes, growling something under her breath about skin contact, when he grabs her wrists in his hands and slams them down against the floor above her head.

 

‘No, little spider,’ he whispers in her ear – and his voice is so delicate and soft that she wants to scream at him – ‘you’re not in control this time.’

 

She hates him for reminding her of it, but hates herself even more for the fact that when he takes his hands away to pull at her pants, she doesn’t move her hands from where they’re pinned down above her head. He runs his eyes over them as his hands drive up her thighs, and she closes hers because otherwise she might come just from his stare.

 

‘Natasha...’ he drawls, just as his thumb flicks languidly over the swollen nub between her legs, ‘you will remember not to come unless I say so, won’t you?’

 

\--

 

She doesn’t come then, not even when his fingers slip ( _finally_ ) inside her and curl up to reach her in all the places that, somehow, she knew he’d be able to find straight away.

 

Even her whimpers and moans have stopped now, replaced by frantic hitching breaths that pulse in time with each thrust and rub. He’s fallen silent too, but Natasha learns quickly that it’s only because he’s plotting to claim her cunt with his mouth and tongue.

 

It’s then, when he’s fucking her with three fingers and sucking hard on her clit, that she comes in a whirl of colours and screams. Her hands stay pinned above her head even as she arches her back in elation, but Loki’s resulting roar makes her flop back against the ground with sudden realisation.

 

Dizzy with the thrum of her orgasm, Natasha can barely resist as Loki wrenches her up from the floor like a ragdoll and throws her down onto her knees.

 

‘What did I say, little spider?’ he demands, his voice rising to just below a shout. Loki gives her barely a second to respond before backhanding her across the ass, hard, and yelling at her again. ‘What did I say?’

 

Amidst the moans that accompany the second, third and fourth blows she manages to respond. ‘That I...that I wasn’t allowed to come.’

 

‘And what did you do?’

 

She whimpers in response as he moves away from her, and she pillows her head in her forearms as if they offer any solace from the man who has her kneeling with her backside in the air and legs spread waiting for him. Her breaths come in raggedy gasps as she feels wetness trickle down the inside of her thighs in his absence.

 

‘What did you do?’ he asks again, softer this time, and Natasha becomes vaguely aware that she heard what sounded like clothing being discarded.

 

‘I came,’ she replies dumbly, unable to muster much more of a response. ‘Without permission.’

 

\--

 

When his hands and fingers grip either side of her waist, just above her hips, she knows what’s coming next.

 

The knowledge completely fails to prepare her for the sensation of his cock driving inside her – she can hear him cackling with laughter because she’s so fucking wet – or the way the world seems to stop everything except for his rhythmic and violent thrusting into her cunt. Her breasts rub against the harsh metal of the floor and blood is pooling at the bite on her neck again but Natasha doesn’t care, can’t think or do anything but feel the fire pulsing through her body as he takes what he wants from her.

 

Loki moans behind her, and in a swift movement he’s taken her hands from under her head and is holding them behind her back with one hand, the other returning to grip bruises into her waist and hips. Natasha feels tension building up between her legs again and bites her lip so hard that she draws blood, desperate not to give in to her body’s desperate need to shatter around him into a thousand bloody pieces.

 

‘Natasha,’ he growls between thrusts in a voice that makes her grind back at him, all broken and slick with lust. ‘Scream for me.’

 

Her eyes screw up in the exquisite pain of orgasm and Natasha doesn’t just scream, she screams his name, screams until her throat runs raw and her body shakes with the effort of clenching and releasing. The grip of her orgasm brings him with her, and tears escape the corner of her eyes as she realises that he comes laughing.

 

She blinks them away and clears her mind as he throws her down to the ground, used and shaking.

 

\--

 

He gives her the coordinates as he zips up the front of her suit, and she hates the fact that he looks as if nothing just happened between them at all – his hair is slicked back again and the traces of her blood and lipstick are gone from his mouth. With a gentle tilt of his head, he holds out his hands between them, wrists together.

 

‘I believe, little spider,’ Loki whispers with a delicate smile on his face, ‘that your agents would be rather pleased if you tied me up again.’

 

The mask falls back over her face and she complies with an unearthly grace that belies the tremors still running down her spine, slipping the handcuffs closed with a reassuringly metallic clicking sound. As she goes to move away, Loki catches the tips of her fingers in his hands and she stalls.

 

‘Come to think of it,’ he murmurs, burning holes into her body as he stares at her again, ‘perhaps I won’t mind if you tie me up, next time you want information. It’s so delicious, isn’t it? This illusion of being in control. Perhaps I shall allow you to indulge it, if you’re lucky.’

 

She doesn’t dignify him with a response; just flips open a panel on the wall and presses the buzzer to alert the pickup. After all – what is there to say to a man who knows full well that every moment of control she clings to is utter bullshit, concealing a burning need to submit.

 

It’s better, she reassures herself as the SHIELD agents carry him away, if your act isn’t entirely a lie.

 

\--

 

Fury doesn’t comment on her dishevelled look when she stands in the control room with arms crossed and eyes daring him to make one. Instead he raises an arm as if to pat her on the shoulder, but she glances at it so disdainfully he thinks better of it.

 

‘You got them?’ he asks in the voice of a commander, and she snorts a laugh.

 

Natasha’s mask reasserts itself as the Black Widow responds. ‘Of course I got them.’

 

There’s no mention of the pieces of her she’s left behind.


End file.
